


Grieving and Mourning in Port Sunshine; or, The Prenuptial Agreement of Heaven and Hell

by tyroneslothrop



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Disgustingly written sex scenes, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Dystopian, Hot sexy heroin, Irvine Welsh would be proud, Kinda, Lots of drug use, M/M, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyroneslothrop/pseuds/tyroneslothrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dystopian future, churches are burning, libraries are shut, pubs are open and university fees are too damn high. Oh yeah, and the first and last words your soulmate will say to you are tattooed onto your wrist forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grieving and Mourning in Port Sunshine; or, The Prenuptial Agreement of Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> My first chaptered fic! If you put 1D, Naked Lunch, Trainspotting, A Clockwork Orange and Lolita into a blender and then shat in it this would probably be the result. Enjoy, I suppose.

“Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”

_James Joyce, Ulysses_

 

“Living in perpetual night, you cannot harm me, nor any man else that sees the light.”

_Sophocles, Oedipus Rex_

 

“June 26, 2015: I saw Satan dancing with delight, the day the music died in the United States of America.”

_Bryan Fischer_

 

\---

 

**I**

 

It was Sunday evening, and Louis was chewing chunks out of his toenail.

 

Nail clippers were a luxury these days, and Louis would be lying if he said he didn't like the tiny little shocks of pain it gave him. He leaned back to admire his creation. His big toenail looked like a shark's asshole. Perfect.

 

He pondered how to spend his evening while his tongue licked around his toe, gathering up all the blood. Bit off more than he could chew. He chuckles into his exposed muscle. There weren't many options for a young lad like him. Museums were shut, libraries were vandalized, social clubs were set fire to... Sometimes at night he liked to pub crawl, and admire the tattoos on peoples wrists and have a right good laugh at them. One time he seen a lad with “Nice cock” scrawled in cursive over the pale joint. He had a right good chuckle at that one, so he did. There was also one with “The wallpaper goes or I do”. Pretty dark. He started giggling into his foot, to the point where saliva mingled in his toe hairs. His foot looked downright acidic.

 

His wrist had “Lost my keys” scribbled onto it. This would be a terrifying prospect to anyone else, but it just makes Louis laugh. How are they going to die, by trapping their head in a cupboard looking for them? Louis was bound to marry a fucking twat by the looks of it.

 

He was sat on soggy, rotting floorboards, and he felt roaches tickling at his arse from the crack of it. Dust filled every single nook and cranny in the cumbersome household, to the point where Louis joked that his cause of death would be being buried alive by the stuff. His living room was barely a living room, nothing but a spunk stained couch, and fridge and a shitty TV. The orange glow of the TV licked and seeped into every corner of the room, lighting Louis radioactive. It danced off the blood sinking into his toenails. He looked alien. The droning from the fridge did nothing to quell suspicion that he was actually residing in an abandoned UFO.

 

Lacing up his shoes, he decided to go out on his own, not bothering to phone his friends Liam and Zayn. They're probably shagging each other stupid anyway. Horny buggers. The warm summer air lapped around his neck, and it almost felt like a noose. Louis shook his hair and went onwards.

 

Neon illuminates his pale face as he slinks into the nearest pub. A slew of scantily clad women of various ages littered around the entrance and gave him the eye but for once, he isn't interested. He wanted a giggle and a drink. Nothing more.

 

“Louis! How ya doin' mate?” a boisterous voices greets him as he goes up to the bar. He's a regular. All the staff know him. The lad working the night shift tonight is called Niall, and he's the human equivalent to a bag of skittles, Louis thinks. It's endearing and infectious though. He greets him with a grin. “What can I get ya?”

 

“Pint ah milk please,” Louis says, throwing some crumpled notes at him. “Ice too, please.”

 

Niall slides the glass towards him, and they engage in some friendly banter. Eventually, he drifts away to serve some large breasted woman and Louis sits alone, swirling the white liquid around, pondering nothing in particular.

 

Business, crime, business, crime... they're indistinguishable nowadays. He swirls his milk some more. Maybe he could mix the shit with some powdered milk.

 

By his third glass of milk, he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist. Some horny old bugger was obviously looking for the old in-out in-out. Well, Louis was having none of it, and turned around to tell him so until he was met with... holy fuck a Greek statue managed to walk out of the museum.

 

Curled hair hung around the man's head like a halo, and his eyes look like emeralds stuck in a pile of shit. The pile of shit being the rest of the company, by the way. Not his face. It was perfectly sculpted, with a jawline that could cut glass and snowy skin that'd camouflage in Heaven's clouds. This dimpled, curly haired monster was staring at him like he was a dessert menu, and Louis was about to spread his legs and shout “Chocolate pudding is half price!”.

 

Before he can embarrass himself though, a blonde thing crawls up next to him. She's pretty, and Louis would probably have given her a second gander if he hasn't been blessed by this Renaissance masterpiece 2 seconds beforehand.

 

“I'm going out to the car, alright?” she says, and her voice is deep and sultry as hell. Louis' cock twitches a bit.

 

“Lost my keys,” Oedipus mumbles apologetically, and the girl sighs and lays her arms on the bar desk.

 

Louis shits his pants.

 

“What the fuck,” he murmurs a bit, hoping he doesn't catch his voice, but Satan is on his side today, and he does. The way his eyes widen confirm everything.

 

Slowly, he unwraps his arms and peels back his button up shirt (he's got cuff links, of-fucking-course. Louis rolls his eyes) and reveals a gorgeous piece of calligraphy.

 

_What the fuck._

 

Louis can't help it. He laughs right into his glass of milk. Howls for what feels like hours. When he arises, bleary eyed and crow's feet almost sentient on his face, he's met with a cheesy grin. Like a child decided to doodle on the Mona Lisa. He peels back his own wrist.

 

The lass looks on completely gob-smacked.

 

“Well...”

 

“Well...” they both cough back at the same time. Mirroring. That's another thing about these shitty tattoos. Fuck.

 

“I'll call a cab then,” she says, fumbling about in her jeans. “See you,” she asserts in a voice that doesn't sound all too convinced that she'll see him again. He glances and sees Oedipus glancing at her (admittedly large) arse forlornly. Louis doesn't blame him. That _is_ quite the arse.

 

Louis' pretty sure he can compete with it though.

They have a few more drinks, and they live and laugh and love and leave till they're sheathed in the blanket of night, neon signs pirouetting in their vision, the skeletons of the remaining trees fighting against the threat of flames coming towards them.

“I thought dating before you met the love of yer life was morally wrong or summat,” Louis pondered into the night sky. The air had lost it's cocooning warmth and was damp with the threat of rain and smoke. Smoke. There was a blazing from the west of them. Someone was burning the church again. For fucks sake.

 

“Hmm....” Oedi- Harry said. He told him his name after he ordered him a drink. Right romantic. Louis thought it suited him. “Well, I always thought it was a load of shite. Until tonight, of course. Good to know what my last words will be though.”

 

Harry stops and looks around him, taking in the blaze and the broken glass and bones, before shouting 'lost my keys' into the night. He glances up to the sky like he's expecting God to strike him dead. Louis swats at his arse.

 

“What the fuck? Stop tempting fate.”

 

The taxi ride home reeks of stale cigarettes and spunk, and Harry's bungalow isn't much either. Bare floorboards, like Louis. Rats scuttling around and inside them, like Louis. Yellow cig stains in the wall, like Louis. Hairbrush ends used as dildo replacements, with shit encrusted in the handles, like Louis. Stale weed stench licked at his nostrils, and he felt at home already. Let's have a baby, Harry.

 

“Not stunning, is it? We could clean it together though. Fresh start and all that jazz,” Harry murmurs half committedly, scratching his balls.

 

“Aye aye, enough with the smooth talk, do you want your hole or not?”

 

They fuck into the early hours in the morning, foreskin peeling back in Louis' shit pipe, pre-cum and stale lube smearing over his swollen ruby prostate. Their bones grind together in an admittedly unsexy rhythm, Harry's cum travelling to Louis' intestines.

 

Sweat stuck to Harry's head like a halo in the morning. Louis was still sleeping, the light from the blinds painting his figure, shining on the dust in the room. The reek of stale spunk danced in the air. His sleeping smile was strangely anthropomorphic.

 

His arm stuck out along the pillow, and Harry hadn't noticed last night when he was preoccupied, but he sees it now. A string of purple circular blots trailing up and down his forearm. The whoosh of air splits open the still air.

 

“Ow... what the fuck?”

 

Harry's dangling above him with his wrists pinned to the headboard. Louis smiles sleepily and fantasizes about him forcing him down again and getting to work, but oh yeah. The bastard hit him.

 

“Explain?” Harry says as he trails his fingers up and down his forearm, deciding to dig his fingernail into the most prominent track mark. Louis' kneecap gently kisses Harry's nuts.

 

Louis' a bit taken aback. He thought it was normal, y'know? All the kids are doing it these days. Light adorns his face, irises like emeralds from a King's crown, the stupid seraphs in Heaven could only dream of this walking in their wake. He smirks up at him.

 

“It's an irregular thing, babe. M'not addicted, can quit whenever I want,” Harry frowns at that, “I'm a dealer, sometimes they ask me to shoot up with 'em. It's all a part of the customer service.”

 

He serves his charming lopsided grin at him, but post-fallen Lucifer is having none of it.

 

“Customer service! Customer fucking service! Do you think you're working at fucking Tesco?” Harry barks into his face. “I'm not about to spend my life with a convict! Are you fucking stupid?”

 

Louis nibbles at his lip. “M'not a convict and I never will be. I'm smart. I've done this for years. Trust me?” Louis' eyes glaze over.

 

“...if I ever see you shooting up without a customer I'll fucking kill you.”

 

Their lips attach, planetary surfaces, meteoroids collide, crumble and dissolve within their saliva. Aphrodite and Ares dance above their bodies, swinging, tangoing, fucking slowly into the morning air. They enter a new season whenever they lay together (imagine Viviladi laying on fresh sheets of marshmallow clouds in Heaven, wringing his violin strings, playing upon their gyrating, disgusting figures), their bodies rippling in rivers of lava, the threat of AIDs in the air.

 

Harry tugs his cock out, and lazily strokes himself over the image of Louis bent over with his arse spread. It was like a peach from the Garden of Eden itself, a worm rotting its way through the centre. He rubs the blood stained shit (or is it shit stained blood? Apple skins mingle into bark wood, squirrels run into the bleeding sunset. It's impossible to tell now) over his cock and dribbles a pathetic load of cum over his hole. Chocolate, cream and strawberries.

 

They say lovers begin to resemble each other. Louis and Harry will swelter on their bedroom floor (yes, _their_ , it was inevitable now), sunlight torching their skin, flesh melting in the cracks, indistinguishable to the outside. Ants swim inside them, they turn to liquid in the heat. Gurgling in the bowels of hell.

 

Louis looks at him softly from under his eyelashes, strokes of sun slashing his face at strange angles. His syrupy smile comes to fruition, and his eyes shine with the purple blots tumescent, adorning his arm.

 

For a second, Harry almost loved him.

 

**III**

 

Louis moans and shudders in pleasure when it slides inside him. God, he missed this. He shifts his body back to try and get more in. Fuck, he can't keep his noises inside his throat, the lewdness splitting the air in two. Harry's cock twitches in interest.

 

Harry peers in bewilderment as blood blooms at the bottom of the needle, flowers and flows river sweet over Louis' wrist and onto the rotting floorboards.

 

“What's it feel like?” he says, captivated by the way Louis' face appears to become formless in front of his eyes in brief solitary ecstasy, morphing into an ageless deity, ascending above him in a junk induced haze. The acridity of Louis' copper blood hit his nose, and he felt his dick wilt again. Louis floated on the ceiling irregardless, grinning down on him. It was a perfect day. It was his O-face times ten. It was sanguine, sex shimmered sunshine days with semen speckled boys dancing in form. In the absence of empathy he drifts.

 

They're surrounded by a panorama of acne adorned junkies, the smell of sweat palpable in the air. Harry scorns upon all of them. Two of them had migrated to the couch and had started grinding their welted cocks onto each other.

 

“That's Zayn and Liam... horny bastards,” Louis giggles as the needle falls out of his arm and lands with a magnificent CLUNK onto the wood. Louis followed Harry's eye. Harry didn't look amused.

 

“How did this start?” Harry says, tracing the dots on his wrist.

 

Louis grins slyly up at Harry, recalling his 19th birthday. He'd gotten a thick book from his parents. Bleak House by Charles Dickens it was called. Oh, the wonderful summer fling he'd had with that book! Seasons melted languidly into each other while he frolicked under cherry blossoms with his dog eared, spine-bent book. Louis almost loved Dickens more than dick. Flames burned inside Louis' soul from this book, it inspired him like nothing had before. He was going to study Law.

 

So there he stood, bespectacled, grinning, stack of books nearly covering his eyes. The university loomed over him, intimidating, as if it was saying "Just fucking try and tickle me."

 

His interview was as smooth as butter. Everything was answered in the utmost elegance and detail, and when he mentioned Dickens being his inspiration the interviewer looked marginally impressed.. Right in the fucking bag, this course was.

 

But then he had a gander at the induction fees.

 

£22,000. A year.

 

"I need money," Louis moaned into Zayn's lap later that day. His cock twitched in his jeans underneath Louis' breath, and he looked up to his stubbed face smirking down on him.

 

"Give you twenty quid if you suck me off."

 

20 minutes and one £20 bill later, Louis was still whining about his money woes.

 

"I know this guy named Liam, yes _that_ Liam, and he sells smack on the low. You're a top notch lad, know how to keep secrets... I could ask him if he'd be willing to show you the tricks of the trade, if you want.". Now here he lay. He tells Harry as much, drinking in his bemused facial expressions.

 

Louis laughs at the irony. He had to turn to crime to study Law. The only A classes he'd ever gotten was in drugs. He'd given up his dream of being a lawyer for the sweet, somber embrace of heroin. Anything that exerted his energy that wasn't drugs or sex was worthless to him nowadays. Speaking of which, Liam and Zayn were shagging each other stupid now on the floor. Harry looked bored, to say the least, and Louis decided to cheer them on. A middle finger was his only response.

 

Eventually the smack was sold, and the needles were cleaned and the spoons were put back in the drawer, and they lived and laughed and loved and left and left there was standing Harry, looking upon his everlong's drug wrecked body, smiling to him, barely human.

 


End file.
